A Day Off
by Animegirl1129
Summary: In which Finch, Reese, and Bear enjoy a day away from the city.


A Day Off

_**Written in response to cottoncandy_bingo prompt: casual. First POI Fic, probably a little OOC. Characters not mine, please enjoy! Comments are awesome.**_

* * *

"This is most unusual."

John quirks an eyebrow as he steps into view in the nook of the library that Harold has claimed for his computers. It's early in the morning, just barely past six and the cups in John's hand suggest a morning boost for the both of them. Bear is on his heels, a tennis ball in his mouth as he happily wags his tail in greeting.

"What is?"

Harold gestures to Reese's general person, presently clad not in one of his usual tailored and pressed suits, but in gray cargo pants and a long sleeve t-shirt, black, that's tight on his frame; the look is completed with hiking boots in place of his typical dress shoes. "The 'man in the suit,' without his suit, of course. I don't believe I've ever seen you in casual wear, Mr. Reese."

He shrugs and crosses the room, depositing a green tea on the desk by Harold's hand before he takes a long sip from his own cup of coffee. "Do we have a number?"

"Not presently," Harold tells him. The Machine has been silent through the night and morning has only just begun. "Did you have plans?"

"I was thinking about taking Bear up to the trails in Hudson Highlands State Park," he explains. "It's not too long of a ride and the trails aren't too rough. You could join us."

Harold frowns. He'd like to go spend the day with John and Bear, but there's always the chance that a number will come up. There'd be no way for the Machine to contact him out in the middle of nowhere and there'd be nothing they could do to help whoever needed them. "I can't."

"You need to get out of here once in a while," John argues. "The numbers can wait a few hours - we always have decent warning on them."

Which, Harold can't deny, is true. The Machine gives as much notice as possible. As soon as a threat is confirmed, it relays the message to Finch in one way or another and they typically have ample time to research, survey, and intervene. Spur of the moment acts of violence are not under the Machine's purview.

"I'll slow you down," he adds, since his John has countered his first reason not to go with a valid point. "My back has been better as of late, but I'm not quite up to your pace."

"Not like I'm planning on running a marathon, Finch. Just walking. We'll stop if you need to."

Finch nods, pushes his chair away from his computers and gets to his feet. "Very well. I'll just go change. My own suit would no doubt be as out of place as yours would have," he says with a heavy sigh as he disappears into the depths of the library, to one of the off-shoot rooms they've taken to storing things in.

John grins to himself, happy with his victory over Harold. He'd been planning on dragging him out of here if necessary - Finch has barely left the library recently, cooped up by the unedingly fierce winter weather. John's gotten him out for the occasional drink or dinner, even talked him into a Broadway show once (though it was also for surveillance, so it doesn't really count). Now that spring is coming on and things are getting warmer, he thought it would a good time to spend a day together.

Finch reappears a few moments later, dressed in clothes that are somewhat more appropriate for their trip to the park. He's got on a pair of brown corduroy pants and a plain grey sweater that he's in still the process of pulling the tags off of.

"You're right," John says, eyes flicking over his friend's body. "This is strange. I've never seen you out of your suit, either."

"Well," Finch counters. "Technically I've seen you out of your suit - I've seen you patched up on more than one occasion, unfortunately - but yes, casual clothing is not typically my first choice." For one thing, button down shirts are much easier to get on and off given his back and neck issues. "I much prefer my own suits, just as you do yours."

John certainly agrees. He'd almost forgotten he had clothes that weren't suits in his closet. "I promise not to make it a habit."

"Good. Shall we go, then? I see you've already obtained a car."

He grins, passes Bear's leash to Finch and leads the way.

The drive goes smoothly. There is surprisingly little traffic and they make it to the Park within an hour and a half of leaving. There's a lot of talk related to the numbers they've had, ones that pop up repeatedly that Finch had taken note of prior to his recruitment of Reese; then there's more personal questions that Finch mostly avoids (John has to try, he's got Harold trapped in the car with him, after all, not like he can run away), and there are occasional whines from Bear, since he is not overly fond of cars - though eventually he settles down and ends up softly snoring in the backseat, legs twitching as he chases imaginary prey.

"You okay?" John asks, when they're parked and he's freeing Bear from the backseat. Finch is looking a little stiff, but he seems better after a few steps.

"I'm fine," Finch assures him.

John nods and doesn't push, just ducks around to the trunk and pulls out a backpack stuffed full. "I brought lunch," he explains when he catches Harold's bemused look, "and some other stuff. Can never be too careful."

"Hm. And your records claim you weren't a boy scout."

"Come on," John laughs, slinging the bag over his shoulder. Finch claims the leash and falls into step beside John, while Bear barks happily and takes up a place between the two of them as they start toward the trailhead.

The trail they're on is one of the shorter ones, Finch notes, probably for his benefit. Only about five miles. A half mile in and there's amazing views of the land below, all forests and lakes off to one side - the Hudson River and the coincidentally named Bear Mountain Bridge off to the other. There are a lot of birds, too. Finch spots a Golden Eagle early on in the hike, flying above the trees they can see below. There are a multitude of other birds - those that are just arriving back with the start of spring, song birds (finches among them) and hawks and ducks and geese and swans. There's even a least bitten, the smallest heron in the Americas, that Reese spots with the binoculars he though to bring along in his overstuffed backpack.

When they get to a wider part of the trail, where a clearing splits off, they let Bear off of his leash and Reese pulls out a tennis ball. It's not technically _allowed_, but Reese and Finch aren't exactly known for adhering to the letter of the law and it's not like they've seen a whole lot of people on the trail so far.

Bear enjoys himself immensely, chasing the ball furiously before dutifully returning it to whoever threw it for him. He's panting heavily by the time he loses interest in the game. John decides that this would be a good time to break for lunch, so he pulls out more of his supplies. There's a collapsible water bowl for Bear, who drinks happily and then snacks on a bone. There are sandwiches, a few different kinds, for them. Some cut up vegetables and dip, some fruits, cookies, and water to drink also emerge from the seemingly endless backpack along with a sizable blanket to sit on.

"Did you bring the kitchen sink, as well?" Finch teases.

"No. I couldn't get that to fit."

The food, Finch discovers, is from his favorite sandwich place back in the city. He's not quite sure how John found out about that one, but he'll let his cameras figure that out later. "Mm, nice choice," he says, ignoring the smirk on John's face.

"I thought you'd like it," he says, enjoying his own food.

The meal continues in relative silence, comfortable as it is. John takes care of the clean-up, repacking things into his bag with practiced ease. Finch suspects he's done this often. "Do you come out here a lot?"

"I used to," John tells him. "When I was younger I spent a lot of days off hiking wherever I could go. I usually went to parks farther upstate, but a lot of them require dogs to be muzzled. This one only requires," he shrugs off the word because they've clearly not obeyed it, "that they be on leashes. Plus it's one of the closer ones."

Bear is ready to play again, though. He brings the ball to Finch and applies his puppy dog eyes until he gives in and takes it from him and so they continue their game for a bit longer before he goes back on the leash and the hike continues on.

"It gets steeper up ahead," John warns, the trail already gently sloping upward. "It circles back around to the parking lot, but we could just go back from here if you don't want to go over."

But Finch's back isn't bothering him yet. "Over is fine," he assures John, picking up his pace a little bit even though John hasn't gone ahead of him once since they started walking.

"If you're sure," John agrees.

They're about two thirds of the way up the incline of the path when it gets tricky. There are some loose rocks from the winter storms and Finch stumbles on some of them. He doesn't fall, but that's only because John catches hold of him before he can completely lose his balance.

"Hello, Harold," he says with a grin, once he's sure Harold is alright. Their proximity is limited like this, Reese's hands braced on Finch's arms. The fingers on his forearms flex, and Finch feels like something's changed here. There's something charged about the air, like the air before a storm, but that's not it.

"John," he says slowly, not sure what he intends to follow it up with; a warning, an invitation, a brush off. His own hands shift, but he doesn't know where he wants to put them, either, so he ends up just dropping them back to his sides.

And John shifts closer, Finch can see the change in his eyes as they dilate, the ocean blue mostly blocked out by black pupils.

Finch knows what's going to happen. He wants it to happen. There's been this awkward, anxious thing between them for a while, probably since Snow shot John and he'd been the one to save him, but maybe before then, too. He feels his own tongue dart out to wet his lips in an instinctual reaction to what's going on.

But then there's a bark.

Another bark and Bear charges between them, forcing them apart. There's a group of people coming up over the hill that Bear clearly felt the need to alert them to. John gives him a command to quiet him, leaving him in a sit as the other hikers pass by and continue on their way.

"We should keep going," John says with a heavy sigh.

"We should."

And they do. They're over the hill with no further issues, except that now Harold notices that John keeps shooting him these looks. And clearly Harold is looking, too, because he keeps spotting these looks. Things seem even more intense between them, whatever this nameless, unacknowledged thing between them is, and suddenly Finch can't wait to get back to the car, back to the city where they can maybe get some distance to sort this out for themselves.

Pretty soon, that's what they're doing. The car comes into view as their altitude decreases and within another twenty minutes, Bear is reclaiming his spot in the backseat and John is stowing the gear.

"So," John starts, as they both settle in their respective seats.

Things have been awkwardly silent, far from comfortable this time, since their interrupted moment of whatever that had almost been. "That was fun."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Finch says. "I wouldn't be opposed to doing it again sometime."

John nods and starts the car, starts the trek back into the city where the numbers and the 'irrelevants' unendingly await them.

Sure enough, there's a number when they get back into town. A payphone just down the street from the library rings the second John stops the car and Finch is rushing to get to it to note the code it has for him. Then he's rushing into the library (even though John suspects he probably already knows what the Dewey Decimal codes are already) to start pulling out books. He sends Bear to his bed with a quick couple of words in Dutch and he has his hand on the first book in the series when John appears.

"Harold, wait," he says, catching hold of the other man's arm before he can go diving headfirst back into their work, as important as it is.

"John, we've already waited long en-" he's cut off with the solid seal of John's lips on his, a kiss that he hadn't been expecting now but had been expecting earlier. John's hands are on him, one still on his arm, the other carefully laid on his neck, fingers playing at the hair on the nape of his neck.

Harold kisses back, letting his own grip settle on John's waist as he sort of loses himself in it. For a second he forgets - about the numbers, about the Machine, about the ones he couldn't save - and it's John that ends up pulling away.

"We have," he says, a grin on his face that's wider and happier than Finch has ever seen as he releases his hold on him. "We have waited long enough."

Finch blinks, more than a little shell-shocked by what has occurred, but for once it's a good kind of shock and not a devastating kind like he's grown accustomed to dealing with since he built the Machine, since he found John.

John's hand lands on his back, snapping him back into reality when he asks, "So, what's our number?"

Finch sets about finding the right books to figure out the social security number that's been flagged even though his mind is still buzzing with the kiss and what it means for them. "Give me just a moment, and I'll tell you." He's typing away, looking up licenses and background information on the name that's popped up while Reese entertains Bear with his favorite pull toy.

After a quick run-down of their newest numbers background, Finch hands over a photo and an address. John kisses him again before he heads out to start his reconnaissance and Finch thinks he could definitely get used to this.


End file.
